The Christmas Conspiracy
by Kathy Rose
Summary: Jon decides he needs to apologize, but he doesn't want anyone to get the wrong impression.


A/N: Written for the Christmas gift exchange at The Delphic Expanse for Aquarius. Beta'd by Honeybee.

Jon had thought the hard part would be admitting he was wrong. He now realized he was wrong about that. It was enough to make him throw the bowl full of alien vegetables against the bulkhead in frustration. He didn't, though, because that would mean he would have to start all over again, and it had been nothing but trouble getting this far.

He checked the list on the PADD for what had to be the tenth time. Hoshi had translated the recipe into English for him. Translation or not, he wasn't familiar with most of the ingredients. Luckily, the recipe included pictures.

Not expecting anyone to be in the galley at this time of the night, Jon was startled when the door from the mess hall swung open. "Trip," he said as his chief engineer walked in.

Trip's eyes were bright with curiosity as he took in the bowls, utensils, and odd-looking food items scattered across the galley's island work surface. "You got the midnight munchies for something special?"

"Not exactly," Jon said.

Trip trudged over to the large refrigerator. "Chef know you're in here messin' with his stuff?"

"I could ask the same about you," Jon replied.

Trip opened the fridge door. "I'm just getting a glass of milk to help me sleep. The beverage dispenser's out." He reached in, pulled out a jug, and shut the door. As he went to the cabinet where glasses were stored, he asked, "So what _are _you doing?

Jon blew out a long breath. He may as well tell Trip, because otherwise the engineer wouldn't go away until he found out. "You remember what happened yesterday?"

"How could I forget?" Trip grabbed a glass from a shelf and put it on the counter. "I have never seen so many aliens get so riled up so quickly, and I don't think I've ever seen T'Pol come so close to losin' her cool. She was actually mad at you, more than her standard Vulcan disapproval." He poured a glass of milk before he looked again at the mess Jon was making on the counter. "I never figured you for a comfort eater. You still upset about what happened?"

Jon shook his head. "It's not that."

Trip took a sip from his glass and leaned back against the counter. "Who would have guessed that trading traditional greetings would end up like that?"

"That's just it," Jon said. "If I had listened to T'Pol, truly listened to what she was telling me, none of that would have happened."

Trip almost snorted in his milk. "She was definitely right about one thing. The ruling council was easily offended."

"She told me to do everything exactly like they did. And I did. Then the lead council member held out his paw. I thought he wanted to shake hands." Jon rolled his eyes. "How was I to know they didn't do that?"

"The claws might have been a giveaway," Trip said dryly. "At least he was the one who had to go through a purification ritual, and not you, this time."

"Yes, but they also declared a moratorium on all contact with us for a year."

"That's the way the first contact crumbles sometimes," Trip said. He gestured toward the island worktop. "What's all this got to do with that?"

When Trip crossed his legs at the ankles as he leaned against the counter, Jon knew for certain that his engineer wasn't going anywhere, at least not until he got an explanation. Prefaced by a sigh, Jon told him, "I'm trying to kill two birds with one stone. I decided I need to apologize to T'Pol for all the times I haven't followed her recommendations, or at least not given them serious consideration."

Trip stared at him.

"It's the truth," Jon said defensively. "You have no idea how hard it is to do this. I've always felt that if I admitted to her that I was wrong-"

"Meaning she was right," Trip cut in.

Jon nodded, glad that Trip had been the one to say it, since he was still having trouble vocalizing the concept. "-it would make it seem like we humans are everything Vulcans think we are. They think we're barbaric, unprincipled, not ready to be out in space. They come across as adults chaperoning a bunch of children who aren't intelligent enough to know what they're doing. The thing is sometimes we don't know what we're doing."

"Intelligence has nothing to do with it," Trip stated. "It has more to do with experience. We can't help it that the Vulcans have more experience out here than we do."

"Right. And that's why I've decided it's time to tell T'Pol that, yes, sometimes we don't know what we're doing, and that I should rely more on her advice in certain situations, and that..." The words almost stuck in his throat. "...and that I'm sorry for the times I haven't."

"What about captain's prerogative?" Trip asked. "You're supposed to be able to do whatever you think is best. You're the highest, most ultimate authority on the ship."

"Of course I am," Jon said, "but I rely on my officers' input. I've come to the conclusion that I disregard T'Pol's advice because she's a Vulcan. It's hard to overcome almost an entire lifetime of distrust."

Trip's expression was enough to tell Jon that he didn't need to say anything more. They both were of the opinion that, because the Vulcans had held back information, Jon's father had died before seeing his warp engine project come to fruition. Jon realized that might be what hurt the most about making this admission to T'Pol. But, after making his own mistakes out here, and meeting other even less-technologically advanced species, he had a better understanding of why the Vulcans weren't always so forthcoming. That was not to say the Vulcans had been right to have slowed down the warp engine project - that would always be a sore spot for him - but he could see the need to tread more carefully in some instances than he had been.

After a moment, Trip said, "I think you just made a psychological breakthrough. Have you talked to Phlox about this?" He grinned. "He might be able to get another paper out of it." At Jon's scowl, he hurriedly asked, "You said two birds?"

Jon felt a flush steal up his neck. "My apology is also a Christmas present."

"Isn't that kind of cheap?" Trip asked. "An apology and a Christmas present all rolled up into one?"

For this first time since he had walked into the galley, Jon truly smiled. "Not if you realize how much work goes into this."

Trip finished the last of his milk. As he took the glass to the sink, he asked, "What are you making for her?"

"Plomeek soup," Jon said. "She says Chef's version is 'passable.'"

Trip snorted. "There's more than one way that could be taken."

Jon ignored the sarcasm; Trip had never gotten over having to answer a "poop" question from school children shortly after the ship's launch. "Sometimes I think T'Pol eats plomeek soup because she doesn't like anything else on board. I'm trying to make authentic plomeek soup, not the type she gets when Chef uses resequenced protein and Earth spices. The best Christmas present I could come up with is something she could actually enjoy."

"Not to throw a damper on your good intentions," Trip said, "but I'm not sure Vulcans enjoy anything."

Jon knew for a fact that Vulcans did enjoy certain things, but he caught himself before he could contradict Trip's statement. He brought the conversation back to the soup. "This might make her feel more welcome." He gazed ruefully down at the ingredients. "If I ever get it made, that is."

Trip picked up a leafy stalk that had several small flowers. "What's this?"

"That's plomeek. Chef traded a case of chamomile tea for it and other Vulcan vegetables when we rendezvoused with that Vulcan courier ship last week. Plomeek serves as the main flavoring in the soup stock."

Trip glanced at a large pan full of water and pieces of chopped plomeek, then at the array of alien-looking produce spread over the counter. "I've seen T'Pol eat plomeek soup for breakfast, but it wasn't anything but liquid."

"I've learned a few things doing this," Jon told him. "Plomeek broth, which is what T'Pol eats in the morning, is a Vulcan breakfast dish. Plomeek soup, however, can have lots of things in it. It's like vegetable soup on Earth. You use what's available." Jon picked up a white tuber and began grating it. "Don't even ask me to pronounce whatever this is."

Trip watched him drag the tuber back and forth across the box-like grater's sharp edges for a few moments before asking, "Have you ever tried plomeek soup?"

"The broth, once," Jon said, adding, "more out of curiosity than anything."

"And what did you think of it?"

"Kind of bland," Jon said.

"That probably goes along with Vulcan females' heightened sense of smell," Trip said. "Be careful what you put in there. If it smells good to us, she probably won't like it."

"That's a strange thing I noticed," Jon said. He picked up a vegetable that reminded him of a yellow Brussels sprout and sniffed it. "None of this stuff has a very strong smell."

"So you're doing this in the middle of the night?" Trip asked. "You gonna go wake her up when it's ready?"

"It has to simmer for several hours," Jon told him. "I thought I'd do that now, then refrigerate it, and get a few hours sleep before alpha shift. I'll heat it up tomorrow evening for dinner. T'Pol will be joining me in my dining room." He gave Trip a stern look. "I was hoping to avoid anyone seeing me do this and start asking nosy questions. I wouldn't want the crew to get the wrong idea about their captain and first officer."

"You and T'Pol?" Trip asked with a laugh. "Who would believe that?"

Jon forced a small laugh of his own, thinking how the crew's regard for him could go to hell in a hand basket if they thought their captain was literally screwing around, and with a Vulcan, no less.

"Mum's the word," Trip assured him. "Perfect timing for this, though. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve." He yawned. "Good luck. I hope she likes it."

"Thanks."

Trip started for the door, but turned back. "Don't forget about the scavenger hunt tomorrow night."

"That's another reason I'm doing this," Jon told him. "If I'm having dinner with T'Pol in my private mess at the same time, no one's going to be able to disturb me in my quarters, asking if I have a water polo ball or a dog toy."

"Are those on the list again this year?"

"I have no idea." Jon brushed slivered pieces of Vulcan tuber from the grater teeth into a bowl. "Malcolm and Travis are in charge of the hunt this year, and I haven't asked them about it. But just in case, I won't be in my cabin."

* * *

The next evening, Jon carried a steaming tureen full of his homemade plomeek soup from the galley. As he walked through the mess hall on his way to his private dining room, he caught snatches of his crew members' conversations as they ate dinner. From what he could tell, most of those who would be off-duty would be taking part in the scavenger hunt.

He could understand their excitement. Last year's prize was the same as this year's: An extra twenty minutes of allotted subspace communications time for personal use. This far out in space, each moment of contact with loved ones back home was priceless. He himself had no close family, which made him think he was better suited to space exploration than some people, but the holidays tended to make him feel more alone than he liked. He wouldn't begrudge any of his crew the chance to stay in contact with their families.

He used his elbow to push the button to open the door to his private mess. He stepped in, only to stop short at the sight of two of his officers, neither of whom was T'Pol.

"Sir," Malcolm said, looking up from where he was seated at the table.

"Sir," Travis echoed.

Jon's first thought was that he hadn't invited them to share his soup. His second was that it wasn't out of the ordinary for crew members to use his private dining room, but they always asked permission first, and it was usually for a romantic meal between couples. As far as he knew, these two particular officers weren't a couple. And it didn't look like they were here for dinner, as the table was covered in data PADDs.

"What are you doing in here?" he asked.

"Setting up the command post for the scavenger hunt," Malcolm said.

Jon frowned at the two officers. "Normally, I wouldn't mind, but..." The tureen was heavy, so he took it to the sideboard in the steward's pantry a few steps away. When he came back, he asked, "Why here?"

"We needed a secure place where no one could see the list while we input it into the PADDs," Malcolm said, punching in information on one of the devices. "The obvious choice, the bridge, is out. A scavenger hunt could interfere with normal operations, so the bridge is off limits to both searchers and organizers."

"We want this to be fair," Travis chimed in. "Last year, there were suspicions that a couple of crewmen had prior knowledge of the items. So this year we waited until the last moment to load the list on the PADDs. They'll be handed out at the start of the hunt."

Jon glanced at the chronometer on the bulkhead near the com panel. T'Pol wasn't slated to arrive for another ten minutes. Maybe he could get this straightened out by then. "There's no other place you could do this?"

"We needed a central location to keep track of what is found and by whom," Travis explained. "We can't use the mess hall, because Chef wants to set up for tomorrow's Christmas party as soon as tonight's dinner is over, so this is the best we could come up with."

"I had something planned for in here this evening," Jon said testily.

Two sets of inquiring eyes looked at him. Jon wasn't about to elaborate, else he provide fuel for the ship's grapevine. While it wasn't unusual for him to have dinner alone with T'Pol, his steward always brought the food from the galley. Malcolm and Travis, two of his brightest officers, had seen him carrying the tureen. They would figure out something was up. He suddenly regretted that when he had decided to apologize and give a Christmas gift to T'Pol this way, he hadn't realized it could be misconstrued as something else.

In any case, it was his private dining room. They should be explaining to him.

"Didn't either of you think to check if it was all right to use my dining room?" Jon asked, trying to cover his embarrassment with irritation.

Malcolm looked at Travis. "Didn't you take care of that?"

Travis stared back at Malcolm. "I thought you were going to do it."

They both looked at Jon, who sighed. He could order them to leave, but that might create more curiosity on their part about what he was doing. It was one thing to apologize to T'Pol; it was another to have the whole crew know about it.

"Fine," Jon said. "I'll leave you to it."

He went to the pantry, closing the door behind him. He lowered his voice after activating the com panel there. "Archer to T'Pol."

After a moment, she replied. "T'Pol here."

"There's been a change in plans," he told her. "My dining room is in use for the scavenger hunt. We'll have to have dinner in my cabin."

There was a long silence before she said, "You told me that you do not wish to be in your cabin during the scavenger hunt. Might I suggest my cabin?"

"Are you sure that's wise?" he asked.

"There is nowhere else on board that there is not a chance that we will be disturbed by roving parties of scavengers. Besides, I specifically told Lieutenant Reed not to include any items connected to me on the scavenger hunt."

Wishing he'd thought of that himself, he asked, "You actually told him that?"

"Yes," came the reply. "If you do not wish to be disturbed, it is only logical that we have dinner in my cabin."

"I'll be right there," Jon told her, and cut the connection.

* * *

So far, so good, Jon thought as he walked down the corridor to T'Pol's cabin. A few crewmen had seen him with the soup tureen, but once word spread that his dining room was being used for the scavenger hunt, they would have to assume that he had moved his dinner to facilitate the event which, in truth, he had.

T'Pol answered her door immediately. "Please, come in," she told him with a raised eyebrow for the soup tureen. "Your steward will not be serving us?"

"No," Jon said. He put the tureen on her desk. "I gave him the evening off so he could participate in the scavenger hunt. The chances of our being disturbed are practically nonexistent."

"That is good." The corners of her lips turned up the slightest bit. "I would not like for my Christmas present to you to be interrupted."

Jon followed her gaze to a sprig of green hanging over her bed. He grinned wickedly. "I'm looking forward to it. Before that, though, here's my present for you. Real plomeek soup."

T'Pol lifted the lid, allowing delicately scented wisps of steam to rise from the container. She stared bemused at the contents. "This is unexpected."

"I made it myself," Jon told her. "Does it smell all right?"

"It smells perfect." She turned her gaze to him. "As you know, Vulcans do not use the word 'perfect' lightly. I am impressed that you made this effort for me."

Jon beamed. "You have no idea how difficult it was."

"The soup is not easy to make," she agreed. "The ingredients were obtained from the Vulcan courier ship?"

"Yes," Jon said, "but that wasn't the hard part." He cleared his throat and stood straighter. He looked her in the eye. "I owe you an apology, especially after what happened yesterday. I should have listened to you, or at least followed your recommendations better."

"No apology is necessary," she told him. "You were being yourself."

Jon looked at her askance. "Is that an insult?"

"No. You were being human," she told him. "You should represent yourself as human in dealings with other species. You should not conform to Vulcan standards as that would be doing yourself a disservice." She paused, a new light coming into her eyes. "I do not want you to be Vulcan."

He started to reach for her, but stopped. "What about the soup? It will get cold."

"Plomeek soup can be served cold," she told him. "It is also very strengthening. You may need to renew your energy later."

He put his hands on her shoulders. "At some point, the crew is going to figure out we're having an intimate relationship."

"Not tonight," she said in a husky whisper.

"After all the trouble I went to to arrange this," he said, "they better not." He smiled as he touched her cheek. "It's funny, though. I planned to have a nice, quiet Christmas Eve meal with you in my dining room, but this has turned out even better."

* * *

Hoshi and Phlox walked into the captain's dining room, where Malcolm and Travis were waiting for the first finds in the scavenger hunt to register on the master PADD.

"Ah!" said Malcolm. "The spies have returned. Mission accomplished?"

"Aye, sir," Hoshi replied with a smile. "I had the captain's cabin staked out, but the doctor saw the captain taking his present into T'Pol's quarters."

"Captain Archer looked quite furtive," Phlox said. He chortled. "If they haven't been up to something, they should be soon."

"I kind of had that idea when the captain asked me to translate a plomeek soup recipe," Hoshi said. "He tried to tell me it was for Chef to make, but I could tell he wanted to do it himself."

"It's a good thing Commander Tucker told us he saw the captain making the soup last night," Travis said. "Otherwise, we wouldn't have known to commandeer the captain's dining room tonight."

"Forcing the captain to go to either his or T'Pol's quarters with his gift," Phlox added, "and further expediting their relationship." His wide smile played over his shipmates. "All of you, and Commander Tucker, are turning into quite the bunch of matchmakers."

"I prefer to think of it as giving a little impetus to a natural progression," Malcolm said with a straight face.

Hoshi playfully slapped the tactical officer on the arm, earning a sardonic smile from him. She watched over his shoulder as the results of the scavenger hunt started coming in on the master PADD before she sat down with a sigh in one of the chairs.

"What's the matter?" Travis asked her.

"I'm just sorry about one thing," she said. "It's too bad the captain and T'Pol won't realize that we just gave them our Christmas present."

"Can't be helped," Malcolm said. "If they knew we knew about them, it could be very awkward all the way round, especially if they knew we set this up."

"True," Hoshi said.

"We'll just have to be satisfied knowing that we've helped make both of them very happy," Phlox said. "A merry Christmas, indeed!"

THE END


End file.
